


You Only Ever Meant Well

by demoncat22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Big Brother Mycroft, Bullying, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harriet is a good sister, Harriet used to be a good sister, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Mary Morstan exists but not in the canon way, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD John, Poor John, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Protective Sherlock, Psychological Torture, Self-Hatred, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sweet Sherlock, The Empty Hearse (fanclub)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demoncat22/pseuds/demoncat22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John starts receiving hate mail.</p><p>He didn't want to tell Sherlock about it, it was just silly letters, plus, it wasn't a big deal. He pretends it doesn't bother him, but it really, <em>really</em> does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins Again

 

The first one had been written neatly, in the scratchy handwriting of a student, on a piece of notebook paper torn from a school book, folded carefully in half and addressed to John Watson.

It was innocuous enough.

It was a piece of paper.

He'd found it lying on the mat of the front door as he ran down the stairs, already late for work, pulling his dark brown coat over himself. He couldn't afford to lose this job - the pay was good, work hours acceptable. They didn't mind that he sometimes took days off, they didn't mind that he disappeared on some afternoons, they accepted his half-hearted lies. They gave him a glance when he returned from his 3 hour break, eyes red-rimmed, looking exhausted and barely functioning.

Never asked though.

They knew what happened.

It had been blown out of proportion by the press and he hadn't been able to go a day without someone recognising him; pointing, whispering.

His work place, the small clinic, often times, was the only place he could rest his head, surrounded by people who cared for him and showed it in quiet nudges and cups of tea. It reminded him of his time in the army, with his team at his back, sharing faint smiles, pub crawl offers (which he always declined).

That was... before.

That was before he moved back into 221B.

So when he'd been late, with barely a cup of his morning tea in his belly, he simply picked it up and gave it a cursorary glance, stuffing it in his pocket before he ran out the door.

 

* * *

 

_\- Ungrateful piece of shit._

 

* * *

 

He stared unseeingly at the wall across him for a long moment, wondering, rolling the words over and over in his head like a broken record.

_"Ungrateful piece of shit!" came the loud roar from across the hall, darkening every window and door, and in that moment the walls seemed to shake, the sky seemed to crumble. He clamped his hands over his ears, scrambling for his bed. With shaking hands he peeled away his covers and burrowed under them. There was a shriek that reached his ears, high and pain filled, but he had promised he wouldn't leave his room._

_He promised he wouldn't leave his room._

The paper crunched under his right hand where it had rested against his thigh, and he rolled it into a ball without looking at it, his eyes and mind elsewhere as he tossed it into the trash.

It was probably a prank, from some of the kids from across the street or something.

His mind returned to the present as the intercom buzzed, the crackling voice of Aaradhya, the receptionist, informing him of his next patient. It would be a long day, and he ignored the way his fingers twitched, the way the nerves under his skin were buzzing and twisting, the overwhelming urge to throw the doors open and run out, and instead follow Sherlock into each crime scene, dog his steps, have his back, never let him out of his sight again, because  _what if...-_

John dug his fingers into his thigh, smiling blandly at the young man who stepped into the room.

"Hello." he said politely, smiling kindly at the nervous fidgiting he was presented with, "Have a seat."

 


	2. Everything Has Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was always unreachable, and now even more so, and every time he tried, there would be a barrier keeping him still, and Sherlock only went further and further away.

 

There was a deleted comment on the blog.

Though it said  _Deleted by Administrator,_  John certainly hadn't done it. He did know, however, who could've, and decided he'd just leave it alone.

He wasn't in the mood for any Holmes drama, and instead closed his laptop and got ready for bed.

Then there was another deleted comment, right after the first, but John had never found out about them, for they were wiped clean away, the deleted comments having disappeared altogether, without any sign of anyone having posted anything unsavoury in the first place, just as it had been.

_Good,_ Mycroft thought to himself, his eyes steady on the screen as he brought his glass of scotch to his pale lips. With three clicks of a button, he'd instructed two of his men to monitor John's blog, and decided that since he was a  _teensy bit_  fond of the little doctor, he would keep his appalling blog clean for him.

He was sure John would take care of the rest.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was busy trying to blow the kitchen up.

The sliding door that gave way to the kitchen was partially closed, only revealing the tense line of Sherlock's back as he peered into his microscope with narrowed eyes, his shoulders almost to his ears as he scribbled onto a piece of paper feverishly with his left hand, flicking the pen away when he was done, his large hands coming up to touch gently at the sides of the microscope.

Christ, but did the detective looked a sight in morning light, softened around the edges.

His tensed expression inexplicably melted away at the familiar picture, the tired lines smoothing over his weary features and his light blue eyes glancing Sherlock's way every so often before he managed to tear his attention away, his lips pursed lightly, twisting in a tender, wistful frown.

They didn't talk anymore.

Sherlock was always unreachable, and now even more so, and every time he tried, there would be a barrier keeping him still, and Sherlock only went further and further away.

The silence in the morning and early afternoons, strained when they passed each other in the hall, so much so that when Sherlock inevitably stormed out of the flat, without a word of where he'd be going, when he'd be back, he could only find himself shivering with relief in his armchair, hands in his head, chanting to himself, his voice a soft rasp;  _jesus christ, jesus christ, jesus christ-_

He wondered why he didn't just, pack up and leave.

He dragged his eyes away from Sherlock's hunched form again, a hand lifted to tilt a test tube gently against the mouth of a beaker.

He knew why he didn't just pack up and leave.

* * *

 

The doorbell rang once, then twice.

He pushed himself from his seat, leaving his morning paper on the arm of his chair.

Mrs Hudson smiled kindly at him when he came down the stairs, drawing her own conclusions from the sag of his shoulders and creases on his face. She tutted at him, as she was wont to do these days, and patted his arm when he came up to her, a smile already on his lips for the mere comfort she exuded. She had full confidence they would sort it out.

He wished he had her confidence.

In her wrinkled hand was a crisp envelope, stark white against her deep blue dress.

"You're looking nice today, Mrs Hudson." he said, trying his very best to return the sympathetic smile she offered, though it had felt painful in the end, and only made him duck his head down, unsure on how to meet her gaze, knowing and exasperated.

"Thank you, dear. I wasn't too sure about the colour initially," she told him in a loud whisper, "But i felt like changing things up a bit today. Oh," she handed him the letter, "This came for you. Not sure who left it there. When i opened the door, there was no one outside."

"Thank you, Mrs H," he said dutifully, seeing her warm smile stretch her cheeks, and regretted never having called her in Sherlock's absence, wondered how he had gone on without seeing her.

 


	3. Words Like Knives

 

-  _Doctor Watson, isn't it time you forgave Sherlock?_

  

* * *

 

He had thought it was Mycroft, purely because of how the letter addressed him. God knows he hasn't seen the older Holmes in a long time - the last time had been 2 years ago, at... at the foot of Sherlock's grave, a week after the funeral. The British Government had found him curled up in pouring rain and roaring thunder, and held up his umbrella to shield him. A fruitless effort, as he was already soaked to the bone and shivering.

But then the letters kept coming, at night, in the evenings, conveniently when he was home.

And the slurs became worse.

And it was just like highschool, just like primary school, just like his father. Just like the years he tried to forget, the ones he tried to put past him. Just like the bruises he'd had to hide and the defensive barrier he'd had to put up.

He knew Mycroft Holmes would never be this petty.

 

* * *

 

-  _John, you don't know what he did for you!_

 

_\- What good are you? You don't even make him dinner, don't make him tea! You don't do anything!_

 

_\- You don't deserve him~_

 

* * *

 

He shoved the crumpled paper into his pocket, an unnatural angle it had taken poking into the soft flesh of his palm, and still he clenched his fists even tighter around it. Maybe it was the Spring breeze that shook his hands, that made him shiver.

He shook his head slightly to clear it, as if the problem was in his mind rather than his heart.

As if his chest didn't hurt at the thought of the distance that had grown between them, Sherlock a brooding, unreachable figure, and every time he wanted to each out, tried to open his mouth to spit out words he should've said years ago, the brilliant, brilliant madman only seemed to be further away. 

Staring at the pebbles imbedded in the concrete of the side walk, he pondered.

_"See, you're poison, don't touch anything! You're ruining it!"_

See, he never had many friends.

The reason why he was so loyal so quickly was because he hadn't had anyone to be loyal to in a long time. It had been Harry... It was still Harry; Harry, he would always be loyal to. But then there was another one - there was Sherlock, who'd taken him apart and didn't flinch away. Who'd known all about him, but never mentioned his parents.

But John knew he knew.

Knew it in the way Sherlock would be especially gentle after handling case that involved an unstable household, knew it in the way Sherlock quietly fussed over his weight, forced him to eat, as if he could see the times when he'd gone hungry, gone so thin his clothes hung off him and he hadn't the strength to run. Knew it in the way Sherlock liked to mutter to himself whenever he caught sight of a scar he couldn't hide in time, one that he hadn't gotten from the war.

That was before.

_"You don't deserve him."_

How true, he mused to himself, ignoring the ache of his heart at the thought.

 _Poison,_ his father said to him.

 

* * *

 

_\- TRASH, TRASH, TRASH_

 

* * *

 

He stilled his trembling hand, clenching them into fists.

When he returned to his office, a block away, Mary and William glanced at him for a brief moment, worry in their gaze, but Nadia had already shoved a cup of hot cocoa into his hands.

"Drink." she said loudly.

Despite already having had coffee, he took it from her, silent, grateful, and she nodded stiffly, glaring at him with her dark, hazel eyes before she stormed away.


	4. Somebody Made You Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Have you noticed anything odd about John?"

 

 

"This came for you, John."

He looked up from the papers on his desk, blinking when the words smudged together and the numbers flew away from him. He looked up at one of his younger colleague's face, her dimples disappearing when her smile faded away, struggling to rearrange her face to be more professional. She held out...

His heart sank.

A letter.

His name in looping handwriting, in red pen.

Three days. It was a different person each time. Sometimes, the words were typed, and he hadn't a clue whether or not it was the same person who typed out these things if he hadn't been able to distinguish between their writing styles.

"Thanks, Aaradhya." he managed to say in a steady voice, reaching out to pull the blasted thing from her hold, his throat dry and his heart beating rapidly against his chest. He shouldn't jump to conclusions though, he shouldn't assume anything unless he had all the facts. He took a deep breath, voice soft when he finally asked, "Who..?"

She rolled her shoulders carelessly, her eyes trained on him, thoughtful, but thankfully, hesitant to ask, "Found it just outside the practice." she answered, smiling a bit apologetically when she added, "I came in this morning and found it wedged between the doors. Thought i'd give it to you before i forget again."

They've found him, he thought, his heart sinking, even here.

He looked down at the paper in his hands.

Maybe...

Maybe it wasn't one of those letters.

 

* * *

 

- _He has scars and bruises from saving your worthless life and you punched him in the face. You don't know what he's done for you. He ran away to save your life and you punched him in the face. Nice._  

 

* * *

 

"Have you noticed anything odd about John?"

Mrs Hudson placed the tray of tea on coffee table, her voice probing and questioning as she picked her way through the utter warzone that was the living room.

"Nope." he said curtly, his pale green eyes darting down to scribble something into his notepad, perhaps putting a bit more force than was necessary, pressing against the paper and leaving darkened blobs of ink behind.

The sight of it made him purse his lips in irrational anger.

"He seemed a bit... thin."

_Thin?_

He briefly thought back to John's lithe figure, the curve of his back and broadness of his shoulders, the force behind the punch he threw and the quiver of his bottom lip, but he immediately stopped his train of thought before it could go any further, into how John had looked when he showed up at his door, grey eyes wide and betrayed, furious, and most of all, _hurt._

He never wanted to see  _those_ eyes ever again, not ever, not even in his mind.

"He's always been that way." he said dismissively,  _"Don't touch that!_ "

She started a bit at the sharpness of his tone, a startled noise leaving her throat, but at least her hands weren't anywhere near his stack of old newspapers, and instead were wiping on her green dress fretfully. She huffed at him, however, when she had recovered, disapproving eyes bearing down on his back like needles.

He snapped his gaze back to the blood sample in his hands, suddenly guilty. He didn't apologize however, and annoyingly, there was John shaking his head at him beside him, like a spectre in his Mind Palace, lined features disapproving and yet, softer than he had ever seen, standing closer than the real John had ever done, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he leaned forward to stare at the sample too, humming thoughtfully, his throat stretched out of the corner of his eyes.

"He looked a bit pale too." Mrs Hudson added in a soft voice,"Like he hasn't been sleeping well. Has he been eating?"

"Mrs Hudson, i can barely keep track of when  _I_ eat," he said to her without looking up, unable to keep up an irritated tone, and instead only managed a sort of uncertain mumble,"Why would you think i'd keep track of when John eats?"

He glanced at the John beside him, pale eyes trailing down John's body quickly, remembering the slimness of his wrists, the thinness of his cheeks.

 

_Unacceptable._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tabu (Tabassum Hashmi) as Aaradhya.


	5. Every Decision Wracked With Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's tomato soup." he answered promptly, silently hissing at himself for not noticing how tired John seemed to look all the time, head ducked down to be able to look his flatmate in the eyes, tilted slightly to the side as he tried to gauge John's reaction.
> 
> John stared at him.

 

 

_\- He's a fragile little child, and he only wanted to keep you safe. Instead you yelled at him. You hit him. Oh John, you're such a piece of shit. It's fine, though, i like you that way._

 

* * *

 

It was a rushed attempt. A botched one too.

John, who had just returned from his practice and looked as if he'd rather head off to bed instead of standing dumbfounded by the stairs, stared down at the bowl that had been thrusted into his hands with a mix of confusion and weary suspicion, greyish blue irises flickering up to scrutinise him.

"What's this?" John asked, voice soft, as if he hadn't the strength to talk normally.

He looked so thin and small.

"It's tomato soup." he answered promptly, silently hissing at himself for not noticing how tired John seemed to look all the time, head ducked down to be able to look his flatmate in the eyes, tilted slightly to the side as he tried to gauge John's reaction.

John stared at him.

He stared back, expectantly, a dawning worry that he had done something wrong. They hadn't any chicken soup left, and it had been too late to buy any - he wouldn't know which brand to buy anyway - when he re-emerged from his Mind Palace, so he'd scoured the cupboards for something, anything that John would enjoy and found a can of tomato soup.

John liked tomato soup.

Just as he was starting to consider snatching the bowl from John just to check if it was even edible, John's smiled slightly.

It was a small smile. A faint smile. It wasn't like the ones they shared after a chase, high on adrenaline and panting and laughing and drunk on joy. It wasn't like the ones they snuck each other when Mycroft or some other boring officials were berating them about something he cared not to remember.

It was the gratitude in the twitch of John's cheeks, the brightening of his dark blue eyes, and for a moment, he could almost ignore the rings of exhaustion that were around them.

John thanked him softly, voice raspy and subdued, and he frowned to himself.

 _What was it? What was he missing?_  

 

* * *

 

_\- John Watson, why are you like this? Should be taking care of Sherlock. Why aren't you taking care of him? He lost 2 years of his life for you, had to run around the world, had to hunt down murderers and terrorists, for you. Chop chop! Get over yourself!_

 

* * *

 

He stared at the wall across him, his arms curled loosely around his knees, his head leaning back against the head of his bed.

He sighed softly to himself, rubbing his burning eyes with the back of his left hand.

Tomorrow, tomorrow would be different. He'd wake up refreshed and ready to face people again. He wouldn't shy away from his colleagues, from his patients, from any human contact to ease his throbbing head, a slow pounding that made him ask for a short reprieve through the intercom, and of course, Nadia had agreed, told him Mary would take over his patients, pretending she didn't hear how his voice shook and cracked.

And William left a cup of hot chocolate at his door, reluctant to enter. He only found it when he opened the door for the bathroom.

They were wonderful, all his colleagues were wonderful...

Tomorrow he'd say thank you instead of running off as soon as work hours were over. Tomorrow he'd find the energy to smile without wanting to cry.

He knew these things would end. These, these _mood swings._

He knew they wouldn't last forever, so tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow came.

He wanted to tear at his chest until he bleeded out, until it stopped.

 

* * *

 

Didn't want to.

He didn't want to see them.

He wanted to hide in his room, hide in his flat, hide forever and never come out.

He  _has_  to pick them up. He has to do it, or someone else will find them, those trail of papers on the groun, as if left there by children who wanted to make a mess. Someone else might read them, someone else might laugh at him, someone else might spread it around.

Mrs Hudson might find them.

 _Sherlock_ might find them.

He has to pick them up, his hands trembling just so, so faint he missed it, and sometimes, just sometimes, he opens them in hopes of something different.  _Maybe it's not what you think... Maybe they've stopped... maybe, maybe..._

 

* * *

 

It _never **is.**_

 


	6. An Error in Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wasn't doing anything.

__

 

 **[** _There's something wrong with John. -_  SH **]**

 **[** _Is there? -_  MH **]**           

         **[** _Mrs Hudson said he got a letter five_

 _days ago._ \- SH **]**

 **[** _He had an envelope with his_ _name_ _on it_

 _shoved through the letter slot, yes._  - MH **]**           

         **[** _Who was it from?_ \- SH **]**

 **[** _Can't you tell? -_ MH **]**

         **[** _He threw them away. -_ SH **]**

 **[** _He receives at least 5 of them daily. -_ MH **]**

        ... ... ...

         **[** _Why did you let it continue? -_ SH **]**

 **[** _The good doctor is a reasonable man._

 _He's thrown them away, hasn't he? -_ MH **]**

        ... ... ...

 **[** _Don't get involved, Sherlock. If it gets out of hand,_

 _he'll ask for help. John is nothing if not sensible. -_  MH **]**

 

* * *

 

He brought out his phone when it buzzed in his pocket, narrowing his eyes at another notification about Doctor Watson's blog, his lips twisted in a faint grimace.

What on earth was the doctor doing?

He glared at another ignorant comment:  _Ungrateful, Trash._

He liked to think of himself as a patient man. He grew up with Sherlock Holmes, with a 4 year old one who wouldn't stop taking away his dinner and throwing it at the dog for no good reason except to watch him eat it so he couldn't, with a 14 year old who slammed doors wherever he went, with a 18 year old one who wouldn't stop slipping away, shooting up for no other reason than that he was _bored._

He was endlessly patient with his brother.

He had been endlessly patient with John.

He'd thought a man like John Watson would want to take care of this personally. He'd been waiting to clean up another one of their messes, with no more than a satisfied smile - no disapproval, no exasperation. He'd been  _waiting_ for _days._

John wasn't doing anything.

 

* * *

 

_"LOOK WHAT YOU DID, LOOK WHAT YOU DID, JOHN!"_

He jerked awake with a shout, small and terrified, drowned out by the sudden crash of thunder outside, his eyes wide and unseeing in the dimness of his room, the large hand reaching for him flashing in his mind's eye, recalling the overbearing odour of beer and vomit. He wanted to retch, just remembering, unable to keep himself from choking on his own breath.

His gasping breath was loud in his ears, a hand curling tightly over his heaving chest as he shoved his stifling covers off the bed with the other.

His leg ached with a merciless pounding - he knew he wouldn't be able to stand even if he wanted to, knew that if someone came to kill him right now for whatever reason -  _useless boy, useless boy -_  he wouldn't be able to run far.

And when he reached under his pillow for his gun, clenching his hands as tightly as he could around the rough handle, his fingers shook so hard it slipped from his grasp when he pulled it out, making a small, soft _thump_ as it fell on his lap, not that he would've heard it over the rain beating down against the window pane.

He stared at it.

_Useless boy, useless boy._

He screamed.

The sound startled him - he thought it would shatter his eardrums, with how sudden it was. He would regret it later, he would regret screaming later; indulging in such a childish act. But for now, he screamed into his arms, curled tightly around himself as if he were still a boy, as if he were still 12 years old and someone had sniggered at him when he picked up the paper ball they threw at his back, and  _why did he pick it up, he knew, he knew what they would say-_

He screamed until his throat was so raw it _hurt,_ and he couldn't feel anything beyond the ringing of his head, the blood in his ears.

Something crashed into his door - he jerked back into the headboard of his bed, his heart determined to leap from his throat - locked and groaning under pressure. _"John?"_ and it was Sherlock, trying the handle of his door, voice frustrated and worried, and nope, no, Sherlock couldn't see him like this. Sherlock  _couldn't see him like this._

Sherlock, brilliant and beautiful, would think him useless.

Sherlock would think him _more_ useless than he already was.

He threw his pillow at the door.

"Leave!" he shouted; his voice, hoarse and pained, broke, to his mortification. N _o no no, he wasn't supposed to sound like_ that, he wasn't supposed to-

The god awful rattling ceased, but he stared at the darkened planes of his door with wide eyes. It wouldn't betray him and open, he knew it couldn't, but for a terrifying moment, he'd believed it would. It was just the way his life had been going, just the way.

"John?"

"Leave." he heard himself snarl, burrowing into the crook of his arms, feeling his cold fingers pressing against his biceps as he closed his eyes, as he pressed his eyes insistently against his skin to rid himself of the flashing faces burnt into the forefront of his mind. "Just..." the word left him in a loud exhale: " _Leave."_

 

* * *

 

 _He's not going to ask for help_ , Sherlock realized, watching John shuffle downstairs out of the corner of his eyes.

The thought made something dark and hot swell in his chest, a bubbling anger he didn't often feel. He'd felt it before, years ago, when John seethed at him for  _not caring enough. How ironic now,_ when all Sherlock could think of was the way John's shoulders slumped with defeat, his gait stuttered and halted. When Sherlock could concentrate on his petri dishes for all of five seconds before his mind wrenched himself back to  _John._

Twice now, he'd seen his soldier go downstairs to pick up the letter that would undoubtedly be sitting on the mat, first thing in the morning, so no one else would take it. He had entertained the thought of taking it for himself, yet Mycroft's words stilled him. His brother was (smart- ~~smarter~~ ) astute in ways he was not; could see into the minds of the plebian - not that John couldn't pull off plebian well. Despite his grumblings, he would always take his brother's advice into account, for it would be idiotic not to.

Each time John appeared again on archway of their flat, the letter would be crumpled in his pocket, and John would grab his mug and retire to the living room, where he would hide behind the paper for about an hour. With the hour up, John would stand and putter about the flat, the letter seemingly forgotten from his mind.

"What's that?" he asked casually, disinterestedly, on the third day John trudged back up the stairs with weary, dragging steps, lifting his eyes from his microscope deliberately.

_John, tell me._

John froze briefly in his steps at the sound of his voice, his fingers twitching towards his trouser pocket. Eventually, he turned to look at him, expression infuriartingly blank, bringing his cuppa up to his lips, rolling his shoulders in a careless shrug as gunmetal blue eyes stared at him over the rim of the mug. "What's what?" he asked evenly.

His lip twitched, nearly curling in displeasure.

John met his narrow-eyed stare defiantly, defensively.

"The paper in your pocket." he said, as patiently as he could.

_John._

"It's nothing." John dismissed carelessly, shaking his head. He shuffled for the paper, face turned away as he elaborated: "Just a couple of coupons someone slipped under our door."

He pursed his lips tightly, until it was white with pressure.

 


	7. I Think I'm Breaking Down Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poison Trash Poison Trash _PoisonTRASHPoisonTRASH he was garbage, he was poison and Sherlock would see that._

 

_\- ABUSER ABUSER ABUSER_

 

* * *

 

He threw the cheap envelope across the room, and he meant for it to hit the wall, meant for it to make a sound that would ease the hammering of his heart, but it slowed halfway, the force behind it disappearing as it drifted to the ground, and  _he could still see it._

His breathing coming out as harsh pants, loud in the buzzing room, and it was  _stifling._

_"John," his 6th grade Biology teacher said, dark eyes worried but expression stern, hard, "You **have**  to tell someone." he said angrily, thin lips pressed tightly together. "You must." dark arms lifted him up, steadied him when his knees buckled and threatened fail him, the large cut over his kneecap having split open when he was running from two other boys._

_"I can't." he remembered to say, his voice small and breathless and wavering, "I can't."_

"John!"

_"JOHNNY!" Mad. Drunk. Angry. So, so angry._

With reflexes honed from years of dodging blows and defending his own, his hand shot out to grab the heavy arm that had curled around his shoulder, ducking his head swiftly as he flipped the attacker over, sucking in a sharp gasp, listening to the grunt and small scream, listening to the angry roars and terrified squeaks.

"Hey, it's okay!"

He shook and he trembled, and warm arms encircled around him, and he couldn't _breathe._ He _couldn't breathe._

"Doctor Watson," a soothing voice said softly, trying to be reassuring, trying so hard not to panic, but her accent gave her away, her anxiety warping her speech and exposing her loss of control over her own voice, fretful pats to his head, smoothing down his shoulders.

"Nadia, call Holmes!" that was Mary, her voice sharp and awful, and the hands around him loosened when he cringed away.

"Everyone should get out." male voice, male voice but not as loud and furious and hoarse as his father, not as accusing, not as threatening as his father.  _Leave him, leave him alone. He was a waste of time, waste of time-_

_Everyone was so angry. Everyone was so loud and he just wanted it to stop._

"Deep breaths."

"It's okay, John, we're calling Sherlock."

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock shouldn't be here._

_Sherlock- falling, flying, a million little things at once, the mop of dark hair and the stain of his clothes, soaked a deep, dark red, a crack right along his skull, lifeless eyes, unseeing eyes, limp hands, cold, without a pulse fluttering beneath his skin, without a heart beat, just like Moriarty said-_

"Sherlock's coming. Sherlock's coming."

_No, Sherlock's not coming. Sherlock can't see him like this. Sherlock would be-_

**Disgusted.**

Poison Trash Poison Trash _PoisonTRASHPoisonTRASH he was garbage, he was poison and Sherlock would see that. He hadn't run the first time they met, but he would._

_And after he'd hit him. He'd hit Sherlock. He'd hit Sherlock more than once, so many times, there was the one where he asked for it, there was when he came back from dying and he was angry at him, he'd been so angry at him-_

_ABUSER._

"No." he moaned, and his breath was shaking, his palms were damp with sweat, and it felt like every breath of air he gulped into his lungs weren't enough at all, and he wanted to be gone, he wanted to be alone, he wanted to be at home-

_ABUSER._

_No, no, no, he wasn't, he wasn't like that, he_ wasn't  _like that._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn't often afraid.

In fact, a few years ago, he would've claimed to be fearless. He hadn't been much afraid of anything; dying - no; Mycroft - hah; beaten up - been there done that; bullies - nope, he'd passed that stage years ago. There had been nothing to evoke his fear, nothing to make him grateful, nothing to incite such a large amount of protectiveness, not until the Pool.

Then he was suddenly aware of _everything._

There was Mrs Hudson, she was part of his... him, part of him, and as such, off limits. There was Lestrade, who had always hovered annoyingly over him, worried endlessly. There was, and he cringed to admit it, even to himself, Mycroft (arrogant sod, useless) (delete) (he'd never thought anything like that in his life) who had his uses sometimes. There was Molly, who'd helped him, who had, at her own risk, at the risk of having Moriarty's wrath brought upon her, helped him hide.

Then, _then,_ of course, there was John.

John.

John who had seen the part of him he flaunted - just so no one would expect anything of him, just so everyone would see him, then leave, and not get his hopes up ever again (see: Victor Trevor) (hide folder) - and never left, even when he purposefully pushed his patience and tested his limits, even when he was an arse, even when he was  _himself._

John who was hurt, and still hurting.

"Get out." he ordered coolly, at the group of men and women who hovered over the entrance of John's small office, who watched him warily.

They obeyed anyway.

When they came back, pushing the door open with hesitant hands, he had forgotten himself somewhat, with his arms curled around John's thin frame, his nose burrowed into John's hair, just breathing in, breathing out, nearly asleep himself, his eyes half-shut as he commited the feeling of John's body fitting against his own, warm and familiar, and John's face pressed into the crook of his neck, still, pliant, arms wrapped around his waist loosely.

Suddenly, brought out from his blissful unawareness, he wistfully, irrationally, wished they'd found each other years ago.

 

* * *

 

He picked up the paper beneath the patient's examination table, slipped it carefully into his coat pocket before following John out.

 

* * *

 

_"You can't go on like this."_

_He huffed a dry laugh, staring at the other boy standing across the table, his lips lifting in a faint, humourless smile, "Really?"_

_"Watson, you can't."_

_"Oh shove off, Moran," he said, no bite in his voice, his eyes falling to his notebook, torn and shredded, and he'd promised himself he'd leave as soon as he turned 18, promised himself he wouldn't stand for it anymore, promised himself he'd stop, "I can do whatever i want."_

_The other boy glared at him darkly, and his eyes flickers down to his book again, just to avoid that accusing gaze._

* * *

 

But that had been a long time.

Glancing at Sherlock, who had bundled him into the cab, held him close, even when his cheeks were aflamed with embarrassment, when he tried to push away, when he couldn't meet anyone's eyes and only let his gaze drop to the ground, mumbling an apology for having to leave work early, he suddenly thought of another boy he had pushed away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard Armitage as Moran.


	8. If Somebody Hurts You, I Wanna Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He promised himself, he promised John, that these men and women who had been running their mouths, _hurting John_ , would not be so lucky.

 

John had mumbled a brief _thank you_ very quietly, his cheeks tinted a slight pink, and he had had the whole of the cab ride to admire that colour across John's pallid features, but he would be sorry to have John leave his side. His doctor immediately went up to his room after shrugging his coat off, eyes on the ground and footsteps silent.

A few moments later, there was the quiet click of the lock.

He pulled the torn letter from his pocket, smoothing over the crumpled edges with his long fingers, bringing it up to the light, tilting his head to the right to peer carefully at the scratches that was meant to be words, at the slight pressure in the paper at how the name was written.

_Trash John._

A fury started in his chest.

 

* * *

 

The paper burned just as easily as it should, and for a moment he was frustrated.

It was such a simple thing, a piece of paper; store-bought, cheap. It held so much weight in it, so much self-hatred, the words written with such fevor and without thought, as if all the man wanted to do was _hurt_ and pulled random accusations from the air to support his ignorance, to go so far as to accuse John - the best and wisest man he had _ever_ had the good fortune of knowing - of being an **_abuser._**

He nearly snarled as he watched it blacken and curl, wither into ashes and soot.

It was over far too quickly.

He promised himself, he promised John, that these men and women who had been running their mouths, _hurting John,_ would not be so lucky.

 

* * *

 

There was no letter.

John's skin crawled with paranoia, and yet relief coursed through his veins at the sight of the mat, empty of an envelope. He unlocked the door carefully, taking a deep breath as he opened it, just in case, just to check, but no.

There was no letter.

The pavement was clean, the street was empty of passerby's, the cool breeze of early mornings ruffling through his hair, uncombed and mussed with sleep.

He retreated back into 221b.

 _No, don't get your hopes up,_ he berated himself,  _You've done that before. You've done this before. Don't get your hopes up._

His eyebrows furrowed and his forehead creased, however, when he shuffled past the kitchen, doubling back to peer at where Sherlock should be.

There was such an awful mess, but there was no Sherlock.

It was probably just a case, he told himself when he glanced at the coat rack, where the scarf was absent and that ridiculous coat was gone, when he suddenly felt as if the flat was too big again, too large and cold, with him standing alone in the cluttered living room, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

His heart ached at the thought, and for a moment, he wondered what Sherlock would say if he simply started following him to crime scenes again, if he asked, but then he dismissed it quickly with a since, a voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like his father telling him sternly:  _"You're useless. Why would he want you to come along?"_

 

* * *

 

Maybe it was time he found his therapist again.

 

* * *

 

Blast it, Sherlock took his cane.

 


	9. I'd hunt them all down for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallowed the sudden bile he tasted, his eyes flickering down to the crumpled ball of paper at his feet.
> 
> He was tired.

 

A group with common thinking, all for the same cause.

A large community focused on him and John; _fans;_ but not ordinary fans, not the ones that made John smile, or the ones that brought them cases, some that occasionally weren’t boring. Not the ones that sometimes appeared to fawn over him and John and ask for their signature when they were out of a case. Usually he'd wave them off and let John take care of them for him.

Those ones were harmless.

Now  _these_ fans, on the other hand, they grouped together to plot their schemes, having no real life of their own to obsess about.

The forums would be a good place to start.

 

* * *

 

The last time he had seen Sherlock Holmes, it'd been about a month ago.

The  _detective-brought-from-the-dead_  had arrived without so much as a call - not that he actually expected a call from Sherlock, or even a text... - barging in with his dark billowing coat from non-existent wind and quicksilver eyes, bored and demanding, like a visage in flashing black and white. Then, he'd had papers plastered over every inch of his flat like a man possessed, his frantic scrawling spelling his desperation and etching out his regret.

Now, Sherlock was on his couch once again.

His cat-like eyes were narrowed,  _dead_  and _cold._

Pale green eyes followed him detachedly when he shuffled into his lounge, a hand scratching at the back of his head, and he faltered when he saw the storm that was coming.

"Hang on a minute," he looked back at his door, which he had known he had locked before retiring last night, no matter how tired and confused he was now, he knew he'd locked it, because he knew  _this_  kind of thing could happen when he didn't. "How did you-"

"I need the list of names of all the people in my little fanclub."

He blinked in bewilderment, his mouth opening like a gaping fish, "What?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

What time is it?

"Ugh, Phil, surely you've properly functioning eardrums? You heard me." Sherlock snapped in annoyance, glaring at him with more than just regular irritation, more than just impatience, taking his hands away from his chin, "Your group has been _out of line_ as of late."

 

* * *

 

There was a brief weight against the back of his neck - soft, fading laughter.

His heart jumping to his mouth as he flinched (had he been waiting for it, for the scrape of paper against his head, he hadn't realized), he whirled around, his fingers curled into fists and his lips pulled into a snarl, a ugly strangled noise tearing from his throat.

A man on the other side of the road stared at him weirdly.

Three elementary students eyed him suspiciously.

He swallowed the sudden bile he tasted, his eyes flickering down to the crumpled ball of paper at his feet.

He was tired.

He crouched down, feeling the piercing sharpness of gravel through his jeans as his left knee dropped to the pavement, reaching out to curl his fingers around the paper, grimly satisfied when he barely felt the twinge in his leg over the physical pain of rocks digging into his flesh.

_Sticks and stones..._

He huffed in wry laughter as he remembered the childish poem spoken in Harriet's lowered voice, when he had been small enough to fit into her arms, small enough to bury his face into the crook of her neck and forget why he'd needed the comfort in the first place, to block out the world with his big sister by his side.

But she'd been wrong - they both knew it.

He had believed it though, for a while.

_Words may never hurt me._

* * *

 

_\- You didn't thank him for saving you, did you?_

_  
_

* * *

 

“I can’t believe they actually went through with it,” Anderson muttered, his laptop opened in front of him and printing, glancing at where he stood tapping his fingers impatiently against the window sill, “Some of the members were talking… about John. They started it as a joke. I mean, I thought it was a joke. It was just supposed to be a joke- something about John not making you tea-”

He glared at the man, effectively cutting off the incessant blabber, and Anderson swallowed audibly, looking back at the screen of his laptop as the soft sound of a printer whirred in the background.

Mrs Hudson and John made him tea.

And sometimes, when he wanted something from John, he did too.

“It escalated from there." Anderson dared to continue, his voice a bit quaky in the beginning, though for some reason he continued on, "They became… loud, they turned every conversation into how John wasn’t looking after you properly, looked through John’s blog to find evidence of-”

“Of him not doing his job?" he snapped, his head already pounding with the implications, the accusations their placid, tiny minds must have came up with, "To serve me hand and foot? Let me walk over him like a doormat?”

While he did think John should be less vocal about his objections on leaving his experiments around the flat, as well as waking him up in the middle of the night, and his insistence on being civil to _Mycroft_  because apparantly, he 'paid the bills', it was between him and John.

And occasionally Mrs Hudson.

“There are two of them.” Anderson said, his voice tightening as he stood up to reach for the paper that had slid slowly out of the printer, his posture rigid, defensive, guilty all over again, “There are the ones that openly hate Doctor Watson and aren’t afraid to speak it, and the ones that pretend they don’t and laughingly point out his flaws. They say they like him, but the way they tear into him...”

Both were toxic, he decided then and there, tearing the list from Anderson's grubby hands.

He'd get rid of them both.

 

* * *

 

 _"I can't just_ not _open them._ _" he said desperately, tears welling at the corners of his eyes as he stared up at his sister, already half a foot taller than him with her recent growth spurt, see her look down at him with frightened, angry eyes, angry on his behalf, frightened of the tears she hadn't seen in a long time._

_"Why not?"_

_"I don't know, i don't know why i don't just leave them be. Maybe, maybe i thought it'd be different, maybe i thought they'd stopped, maybe i'm sick, tht's it, isn't it, i'm sick, i thought it wouldn't hurt anymore, i wanted to see what they had to say, thought it couldn't all be the same- maybe i just wanted to get it over with-"_

_"Johnny, listen, you listen to me." she said, her fingers tight around his shoulders, staring intently into his eyes as she leaned slightly so they were eye to eye, her eyebrows furrowed with protective rage that simmered just below the calm of her voice, "They're just paper. They're just words on a paper. They're written by cowards, every single one of them. You don't have to_ read _them. Throw it away, don't look at them._

 _"Can't. It's like, it's like they're shouting at me, like when Da used to- they talk about me behind my back, i can_ hear _them-"_

_"Cowards." she said firmly, her jaw clenching as she narrowed her eyes, "They're cowards. They don't know nothing about you, or us. They don't know anything. Fuckers got no life of their own. Listen," she rubbed at the edges of his eyes with her thumb, swept his tears away forcefully as if she could do the same with the ache in his heart if she tried hard enough._

_"Listen, Johnny, you're worth thousands of them. Don't forget it. You'll always be worth thousands of them cowards."_

 

 


	10. I'm Only Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has friends who care about him.
> 
> They're just about the only reason he comes in to work instead of staring listlessly out his bedroom window.

 

She rounded the corner to the small clinic, a hand on the strap of her chartreuse purse as she dug around for her card.

Her eyes glanced up, away from her purse for a brief second to check the punch card machine as her feet brought her before the door, before her lips abruptly twisted, gaze sharp on a crisp envelope laying innocently on the top of the faded blue mailbox nailed to the side of the wall. The mailbox belonged to no one, officially; the manager had let it stay after buying the establishment, but over the years, letters and invites meant for their employees had been shoved through, and so it was practically theirs.

The letter was what caused her eyes to narrow and her fingers to slow, resting lightly against her purse, her employee card between her thumb and forefinger.

She slid her card into the machine, hearing it go  _beep_ as she grabbed the envelope, glancing over it before pushing the door open and striding into the practice.

“Hey Mary.”

“Another one.”

Nadia looked up sharply at her curt words, her expression souring under her pale green hijab, dark brown eyes falling to her fingers, to where she held out the letter for perusal before tossing it onto the receptionist's table.

William, in one of the rare moments in which he came earlier than the rest, poked his head through the staff room door, his shaggy dark hair shifting over his glittering blue eyes, “Good morning, Mary.” He greeted with an abundance of cheer, his lips already lifting in a bright grin as he lifted a mug in her direction. It was probably coffee.

His eyes dropped to Nadia’s desk.

The smile faded slightly.

“Is that…”

“Maybe.” Nadia said, her lips pursing, swivelling her chair back to face her computer screen.

"Do we give it to John?"

"It's addressed to him, isn't it?"

"Maybe it's not what we think it is." William suggested, bringing the mug to his lips slowly, his gaze trained on the letter as if he could ascertain it's contents if he stared long enough.

"Aaradhya said it was the letters." Nadia muttered, glaring at her computer.

"Well, it could be important."

"There's no return address." she pointed out. _  
_

William exhaled slowly through his mouth, running a pale hand through his hair irately, "We can't just throw it away." he said with a small frown pulling at one side of his lips, "What do we tell him if it's not what we think it is? 'Sorry, John, we opened your mail because we thought you were being harrassed.' He'd never trust us again."

"Well, it probably  _is_ what we're thinking of, so..."

"Just put it with the others." Nadia interrupted her, well used to her temperament, cutting off her rising irritation calmly as she turned her chair around to face William, pushing the letter towards him with two fingers gingerly, "If he asks for them, we'll give it."

"Otherwise, not a word."

 

* * *

 

          "Hey Sherlock, i was wondering-"

_"No."_

          "I meant that i haven't seen John recently, is he, uh, coming to crime scenes again? Not that Molly isn't a good substitute-"

_"Busy."_

          "What- With what? You rarely come down here anymore-"

_"I'm here right now."_

          "What-!"

_"Can't you see me?"_

          "Sherlock, are you in my office-"

_"You're daughter is a bit young to be dating, isn't she?"_

          "My- for gods sake! How many times have I told you, you can't just go through police records using  _my-_ "

_"-"_

          "Sherlock-!"

 

* * *

 

_"Change, any change?"_

_"What for?"_

_"Cup of tea, of course."_

 

* * *

 

"Hello, John."

He crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head around with a half-hearted huff of irritation.

"May I?" Mycroft Holmes asked politely, a bland smile on his thin lips, tilting his head towards the space next to him, as if he would be completely at ease sitting his thousand pound suit of imported silk fabric on the rusty edge of an old park bench.

"What do you want?" he asked instead.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Mycroft replied, making no move.

He let the change of conversation wash over him, sighing; a long, soft breath that seemed to carry a thousand words, and he had the strangest feeling he had given himself away. His eyes flickered to the ground, and wordlessly, he shifted slightly to the left.

Light footsteps approached, the rustle of cloth; Mycroft sat down beside him, gently placing his umbrella against the arm of the bench.

"I took the day off." he said as he glanced at the older man out of the corner of his eyes, where Mycroft seemed to be in the process of looking around and disapproving of everything around them. His words came out sounding slightly petulant - he was spending too much time with Sherlock.

Wait, no.

He wasn't spending any time with Sherlock.

_God!_

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, pressing against them with an irritated hiss, part hysteria, sounding a bit desperate to his ears, and a small noise that had his ears warming in mortification, had him clenching his eyes shut as overwhelming frustration welled up in him;  _why, why, why, why when everything had just come together, when he just got him back._

"John."

_"Leave it, Mycroft."_

“You do know, John," Mycroft started in a voice so uncharactaristically gentle and delicate, as if the wrong word would send him spiralling into another panic attack, and wasn't that just the funniest thing - Mycroft Holmes tip-toeing around him like he was a fucking time bomb- "That you need only ask for help." his all-knowing gaze was nowhere near him as Mycroft stared disinterestedly at one of the rose bushes that loitered the park, "Help _will_ be given.”

He went cold, then hot again.

“No,” he said in an awful, weak voice, for a moment petrified with the knowledge of Mycroft knowing, even though he shouldn’t be surprised with _Mycroft knowing._ “ _No_.”

“John-”

“You can’t." he interrupted, sharp and abrupt, the words jagged in his throat, "Sherlock will know. He’ll know-”

“He will think no less of you for it.” Mycroft pointed out, head turned slightly towards him, a faint trace of disapproval underlying his words, and he shrunk back hearing it, his fists clenching at his sides

“I can deal. I’m _fine_.” He swallowed, his eyebrows furrowing as he closed his eyes, pressed them shut, “I was a soldier.” He added, seeing the remains of another time, when he had been younger, fitter and  _better;_ when he had another blond lying in bed with him, tracing his childhood scars with a probing finger, a thoughtful crease as he looked up and said in a quiet whisper, a _promise._

_I'll protect you now._

He almost laughed at the state they were in now - tattered and torn apart, one shot and the other disgraced.

There was a loaded silence from Mycroft.

“Leave it,” he said when he finally caught his breath, a smile lifting his lips as he shook his head, something heavy and dark welling in his chest, “Just- _leave it._ ”

_You can't help me._

 

* * *

 

 **[** _Pray tell, what are you doing? -_ MH **]**

  **[** _If you're not here to offer your assistance,_

 _ **go away**_ _ **.**  - _SH **]**

 **[** _Sherlock, don't. get. involved. -_ MH **]**           

          **[** _Oh please, don't give me that. You knew_

 _about this, you_ _knew_ _what they were doing_

 _to him, and you did **nothing.**_

**[** _John will deal with this on his own._

 _The man_ _doesn't need your help for_

 _everything. -_ MH **]**

 **[** _He's clearly not going to do anything. If_

_he were going to, don't you think he would_

_have **by now?** - _ SH **]**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colin Morgan as William.
> 
> Wardina Safiyyah as Nadia.


	11. Get Out Your Guns, Battle's Begun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's had his fair share of codes. _Doctor's orders_ was one that their rag tag team of co-workers had come up with, that had saved most of them from breaking down in tears.

 

 _"Hey, Nadia, i'm, i'm not coming in today."_           

          "Oh? Why not? Is something wrong?"

_"I- no, not really."_

          "... Doctor's orders?"

_"... Yes. Yes. I'm sorry,_

_I can't- I promise I’ll make it up to you."_

"John,  _it's fine_. Make up for it later,  _after_  you're better.

          Mary can cover for you; don't worry about a thing. First

          though, get away from here."

_"Right... right. Thanks, Nadia."_

 

* * *

 

The forums were very informative, and in the end, it was so very easy to track them down.

His Homeless Network had little to no trouble, and they all came back to him in less than 30 minutes. Record time, really. He wondered if he could get them to be this quick when on a case. They probably wouldn't bother if he or John were not in danger. They did not listen to him as diligently as he thought they should, but they liked John, almost as much as they liked him, and John didn't pay them. A lot of people liked John. Sometimes it made his fingers itch to keep from pulling them away from him.

 _Ding,_ went his phone.

He rolled his eyes, his attention breaking away for a moment to fish his mobile from his pocket.

There had been some drama in the forums, and it had had his mobile ringing all day.

He registered  _one time_  and it wouldn't stop buzzing every single time there was a new reply.

Maybe it would be useful (he doubted it, he really did) but it wouldn't hurt to check. He opened the tab and what he was presented with had his eyebrows raising, unimpressed and a bit annoyed he had unlocked his mobile for this.

It was a picture of burning paper, though why anyone would want to post a picture of a burning book he had no idea... Though it did remind him, absently, about terrorists making a statement, and what was it...? He must have shoved it somewhere at the back of his Mind Palace, but he could have sworn the Nazi's had done the same to libraries and bookstores during the Second World War.

They were begging for approval - that he could read from the large words in their caption, the hurry in which they had typed - for attention of any sort.

It was startlingly pathetic, how they would burn something someone had worked so hard on, how they would put so much effort into telling the world something that no one actually cared about. It was as if they couldn't see how they were embarrassing themselves by being so childishly petty, couldn't see how they were bringing their group a bad name despite their general insistence -  _doth thou protest too much -_ that they're not the 'bad ones'. Their actions speak for themselves, and though he hadn't been on the forum for more than a day, he already knew they were one to avoid.

They were the majority, and had shunned and bullied the minorities with reasons conjured from thin air to support how it was  _uncomfortable_  and  _socially unaccaptable,_  warped out of proportions.

It was all very basic, although the minorities had his sympathies for having to deal with them without getting the urge to squeeze their brains out.

He switched his mobile off, slipping it back into his pocket as his feet brought him to the front door of an appallingly ordinary house, with white-washed fence and a blue door.

He rearranged his features, his hands going up to ruffle his hair accordingly, letting them flop against his forehead limply.

The Game is on.

 

* * *

 

John had only thrown a couple of things together before he left, keys in one hand, a half scribbled note in the other, sticking it on the skull because he knows Sherlock would talk to it in the end, and if he sees nothing else, he would see that.

Harriet was not the most reliable of siblings, but she was his sister.

He didn't know what he'd do if she turned him away,

 

* * *

  

It was so easy in the end.

He showed up with his scarf hanging loosely from his neck, a dejected expression on his features, voice soft and mournful; _"John... John hit me, i saw the forum, i saw you were on my side. I just needed to get away from him for a_   _while..."_ ; and the young women who answered the door fell at his feet like a house of cards. He played the victim, just to guage which ones they were, were they the ones who despised his John - how they did he had no idea, he hadn't ever seen someone who didn't like John, his mild manner, his soft-spoken ways, his ever changing eyes... - or the ones who loved thinking John as a harsh overlord who commanded his every single move? _"But, i have to go back... i- i love him."_

And they  _shrieked,_  "I _knew it!"_

_"Oh baby, you poor, poor darling!"_

It was  _revolting._

He barely kept himself from glaring, his frown from pursing into a vicious snarl, his fingers from curling into a fist, as they talked and cooed over him as if he were a child, how they giggled and laughed at the thought of John abusing him, how they were  _right_ , and it was very, very easy to have them call every single supporter they had and schedule a meeting. Today. As soon as possible.

And drugging their entire packet of tea.

 

* * *

 

          "Mycroft."

_"Sherlock."_

          "I found them."

          . . .

          "Half of them."

_"I'll pick them up."_

          "Make sure they're _comfortable._ "

_"You hardly had to ask."_

 

* * *

 

_Ring, RRING, RRRRRRRRRING_

"OH SHUT UP."

A hand curled around the doorknob, fingers clenching so hard around bronze steel. Fumbling with the locks, all three of them, it felt like an age when she finally yanked it open so hard a rush of air slammed into her, but it was who she saw at the door that made her suck in her breath sharply, made her swallow reflexively. Panicked blue irises roved over his helpless expression, his curled fingers tightly around the strap of his backpack, slung over slumped shoulders.

"John." she said, voice small, already remembering the bottle on her couch.

"Hey Harry."

His voice was small too.

He finally looked up at her, and he looked very small outside her door, not as imperious as when he would loom over her and chastised her, not as loarge as when he had found her beside a pub, fearful and angry. He looked... he looked just like her little brother. With his downturned head and his large jumper - she'd given him that one didn't she? - making him seem younger, seem like her 17 year older brother coming to her for comfort she used to always give.

God, when had she stopped?

"I'm sorry," he started to say, his mouth opening and closing, his words stuck in his throat, and she remembered when he used to stammer like that all the time, "I, that is- can i, can i stay for a while?"

She swallowed, her fingers spasming around the edge of the door for a brief moment, and he didn't even notice it. John, who noticed almost everything about her, didn't notice how her eyes flashed with panic and guilt, because he had been looking at his feet, just waiting for her to turn him away. That was it.

"Come in." she said quietly, and his head snapped up.

"Really?"

"Yes."

 

 


	12. Back When We Were Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, Harriet had been someone John could depend on, and John had been someone Harriet knew.

 

The other group had to be tracked down individually.

He didn't mind, really. He chased criminals all the time, and he had had more than enough experience doing it one at the time when he'd been dismantling Moriarty's web. Though he was irked he wasn't wrapping this up sooner.

It wasn't because he was wasting precious time, never that - time was never being wasted when concerning John, he knew that now - but instead just the opposite. Another day of letting them run free was another day of John being in danger.

See, the problem with Group B was that unlike Group A, they never ganged up together like the rats they were, never spoke outside of the forum aside from the occasional private message, where they were very loud. They weren't completely annoying, they had their good sides - they were very easy to find. Most of them didn't bother hiding their location, and if they did, they didn't do it very well and it was nothing to hacking into their account.

Abysmal, really.

Well, he supposed they never thought they'd ever be hunted by a high-functioning sociopath.

But then, if they were going to hurt his doctor, they really should've expected it.

 

* * *

 

Harriet had infallible memory.

How many times she used _falling down the stairs_ as an excuse, where she ached and bruised, perhaps too much, in too many places, to be anything but a sub for her team… How many times she caressed her brother’s own bruises and hauled him up into her arms, to quieten his sobs into dy snuffles, how many times John had to pull her back and away from the dicks who laughed at them and picked at _him,_ his hands tightly around her arm, his shouts barely filtering through. Telling her it wasn’t worth having mom or dad get called to school for this. It was never worth it.

But she rained hell anyway.

Not a lot of kids liked admitting they were beaten by a girl.

_"Why is it okay for them to hit him like that?" she had been 8, and the first tendrils of addiction had just started to take ahold of their father, his beady eyes narrowed on her as she pointed through the kitchen door, her mother beside him, lips pursed and content to staying silent as the clock announced the time with every tick, counted the minutes she'd spent with her feet cold against the tiles. "Why don't you do something?"_

_"Harriet." her mother said tightly, annoyed, "He needs to learn how to defend himself."_

_She narrowed her own eyes in confusion, her fingers clenching into fists, where her knuckles were dark and bruised from earlier that day. Her mouth opened, ready to have her questions answered, ready to fight back._

_"Enough."_

_The sound, so filled with command, cold and sharp, made her shut her lips with a click. Her eyes shifted to her father, wandering to how he flexed his palms against the bottle in his hand._

_"You are a girl." he said, and the way he pierced her where she stood with his dark eyes made her want to shuffle back, but anger only unfurled in her chest, an explosive force that had her clenching her jaw tightly, even if it made both her parents narrow their eyes. "I expect you to be a good daughter and do as you're told. Do not start anymore fights, and especially not for your brother."_

She could remember precisely how that order had went down, remember how taken aback she had felt hearing the alien fury from her father's throat, could remember stomping back upstairs, only to dither at the door of her brother's room. She'd slowly opened the door, pushing her head through the space, her hands gently on the doorknob to keep it still.

_"Johnny?"_

_"You shouldn't have done it, 'Arry." he mumbled softly, watching her from where he sat curled under his desk, the back of his hand coming up to rub at his eyes, red-rimmed and bright, "I'm fine. It's notta big deal."_

_"Are you okay?" she had ask anyway in a whisper._

_"Yeah. Go to your room. Mummy and daddy will get angry."_

Harriet had infallible memory, and she could count on the fingers of her hand the number of times John came to her for help after she turned 21. After he found her lying outside a night club for the first time, drunk off her arse with her lipstick smeared over her cheeks, smelling like gin and vodka. She could never remember what she said that night, only a blur of colours, of noises, John's voice in her ear, his arms pulling her up, but she must have said something, because if there was one thing she could remember, it was John's stricken expression bathed in streetlight.

 

* * *

 

“Hello.” Sherlock chirped in faux cheeriness, standing at the door of a small house in a disgustingly clean neighbourhood, even with a little church at the end of the street and nice plots of gardens for each home. He smiled, almost a baring of teeth, the curve of his lips slipping almost as soon as it appeared.

“Are you-” the stout man opened the door a little wider at the sight of him.

The question was so predictable that it actually, amazingly, made him even angrier. " _Yes."_ he clipped out, stepping closer towards the very happily married man, his fingers reaching forward quickly to clench tightly around the man’s thick wrist, and if he knew the force was too much, knew that it would bruise... _well._

“What the hell-!”

“You’re under arrest," he said, fauxly benign, twisting Edwin Sillan's arm around roughly, the click of handcuffs making Sillan stiffen and jerk uselessly, "For harassment. Say nothing - i do not care to listen to your excuses.”

"Daddy?" pitter-pattering of feet, and he ignored them as he ignored the hoarse yelp that had tore out of Sillan when he shoved him out the door, _accidentally_ yanking his arm back with enough force to dislocate it when the uncoordinated imbecile stumbled forward.

His eyes flicked to the black car across the street.

He hadn't asked for it to be there, hadn't called anyone, but there it was.

He looked back down at the man staring up gobsmacked at him. “You will be joining the rest of your inmates shortly.”

 

* * *

 

“Guest room’s free.” She cleared her throat, wincing at the croak in her voice, her pace quickening as she led John into the lounge, hearing his soft footsteps follow her, the shifting of his baggage from one hand to another. She leaned forward to snatch up the empty bottle lying against the arm of her sofa, fingers white with pressure, shoving them out of sight. The sound they made against the tiles made her cringe.

There was a short silence.

“Right.”

She turned around at the sound of his voice.

“I’ll…” his eyes were averted again, blue irises darting from one point of the shoddy flat to another as if he were afraid of seeing something he didn’t want to,  _seeing something of their father_. His feet made an aborted movement towards the darkened hallway, where he knew to be where the guest room was, “I’ll be in my room.” Somehow, it sounded like a question.

She nodded, clearing her throat as she ran a hand through her hair, wishing there was something she could say, anything at all that wouldn't remind her of what they'd lost.

“Okay.”

Her voice was almost inaudible.

In the end, she could say nothing at all.

 

 


	13. I'm Just Dreaming Of Tearing You Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Solitary confinement ___: a form of imprisonment in which a prisoner is isolated from any human contact.
> 
> __Impact on a prisoner's mental state ____: depression, permanent or semi-permanent changes to brain physiology, an existential crisis, and death.

 

It was dark.

It was so dark, and it was so quiet.

Sight had been taken away, all but the sound of their breathing in the small room, the feeling of cold cement under their fingertips. There had been more, they knew there had been more, but they were alone, alone, alone for so long. Every so often, minutes, hours, there would be the click clacking of high heels across tiles, just outside the cell, and it would be the only sound. They would throw themselves against the door, beat their fists on the heavy metal until their bones broke, their voice cracked.

_“PLEASE.”_

_“LET ME OUT.”_

_“ **HELP ME**.”_

The click clacking never stopped, never even faltered.

 

* * *

 

"I want them to know," Sherlock started to say, nonchalant, as if it had just came to him, his eyes trained on the screens put on display just for him, blue light washing over his angular features, "What they did wrong. I want them to know why they're suffering _right now_. What they're hurting for."

"I want them to know," Sherlock said silkily, turning around to look at Mycroft, his glass eyes as cold as his pale features, not even a ghost of a smirk in the face of his victory, and in that moment, it seemed they were every bit brothers, "That if they ever touch John again, i will not be so kind."

 

* * *

 

Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm.  _Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm._

_"Stop, stop."_

Mm͢mm͜ _m͡m̶m. ҉Mmmmm̛m̶m. ̧Mm͠m͘m̧mm҉m͢. Mm̴m͞m͏m̢m͡m.̧ ҉Mm̶mmmm̧m̛. ̕Mmmḿmmm҉.̕ ̨M̶mmm͜m̴m͠m̧.̢ M͢mmmm͠m̶m.̨ Mm͞m̷ḿm͜m̶m͟. M̕ḿmmmmm.̷ ̡Mmm͟m̸mm̨m͞. Mmmmmm͝m͢.̡ ̛Mm̢mmmm͢m̛.́ ͟M̀m_ mmḿmm.͡ Mmm͢m̶m̸mm. Ḿm̵͝ḿm̸̀m͘m͏̨m̴.̵̸͡ ̷̡̛M̵̢̨m̧m̛͟m̧͡͡m̀m͟҉m̸̷.́͘͜ ҉̶̨M̸͡͡m͘͠ḿ̷m̴̧̨m̸̕͡mm̸̷.̸͜͝ Mm̢mm̸͟m҉̡m̨m̵̧. ̷̧M̵̷͢mm̴̡͞m̶͞m͢͠m̴m͟.͘ 

_"STOP, STOP, STOP- stop-"_

___M̠̻̤̭͇̬͢ḿ̰͈̤̖̜ͅm̞̰͎̯̩̬m̸̺͇̖m̛̪͔͕̦mm̟̖̥̝͈.̢̜͕ ̻M̲͓m̸̥̲͇͖͉̭̼m̪̠̮̜m̟̹̙̘ͅm̛̼̣̯m̖̝̟̲͇̗̼m͔̞̻͘.̛̬ ͕̣́ͅḾ̮͕̯̳m̶̭̩͈̘͚ṃ̨̯̖̻m͉͎̗̖̤̥̻͟m̸͙̟̩̣m͉͕̱͞m͙̺͖͇̞͢.̨͍ ͏͈̖͔̯̘̻͙M͙̪̫͎͖̣͈m̛̤̼m͇̲͔̙̮̬̀m̝͓̻̯͓̺̜͝m̴m̹̫̳͎̭̭m͓̝̼̖̣̲̻.̫͇̙ ͏͇Mm̶̬̰̩m̟̳̻̫̳m̖͈͚̱͇͉m͏̼͎m҉m̝̳̪̱͕̙̮͞.͈̺͡ ̺̻̣̳͈M̢̺̙m̧̜̱̲̝̞̙m͈̲̟̠͓̗m͉̦̯̠ͅm͍͇̜͍̩̫̜mm̮̱̼.̵̣̱___ _ _ _M̠̻̤̭͇̬͢ḿ̰͈̤̖̜ͅm̞̰͎̯̩̬m̸̺͇̖m̛̪͔͕̦mm̟̖̥̝͈.̢̜͕ ̻M̲͓m̸̥̲͇͖͉̭̼m̪̠̮̜m̟̹̙̘ͅm̛̼̣̯m̖̝̟̲͇̗̼m͔̞̻͘.̛̬ ͕̣́ͅḾ̮͕̯̳m̶̭̩͈̘͚ṃ̨̯̖̻m͉͎̗̖̤̥̻͟m̸͙̟̩̣m͉͕̱͞m͙̺͖͇̞͢.̨͍ ͏͈̖͔̯̘̻͙M͙̪̫͎͖̣͈m̛̤̼m͇̲͔̙̮̬̀m̝͓̻̯͓̺̜͝m̴m̹̫̳͎̭̭m͓̝̼̖̣̲̻.̫͇̙ ͏͇Mm̶̬̰̩m̟̳̻̫̳m̖͈͚̱͇͉m͏̼͎m҉m̝̳̪̱͕̙̮͞.͈̺͡ ̺̻̣̳͈M̢̺̙m̧̜̱̲̝̞̙m͈̲̟̠͓̗m͉̦̯̠ͅm͍͇̜͍̩̫̜mm̮̱̼.̵̣̱___ M̅͗̌ͩ̀m̽̋̽́m̢̅̓̍̑ͣ͑̈́mͤͭ̏ͥ͟m̧̿ͭͮ̍̇ͯmm̢.ͬ͑͐̓ ̷̇̃͒M̈͗ͫmm̈̀m̢̎̽̿͗m̷̉̃ͨͫ͛́m̅̍̃mͯ̽.̔̋̈ͥͭ͢ ̊ͫͣ̊̽ͥMͮͧͥ͌̊̀̕m̆̇m͐͑ͧ̿̒ͣmͪ͋҉m̶ͨ̿͋̄̒̊ͩm̄ͯ̈́̆̇ͨ͑͟m͊̇͐͐̚.҉ ̢ͤM̔̃̄͗͜mͮ̿͗̾͟m̊ͫͬmͩ̔̊ͭ̿mͥͫmm̛.̄͐̂͒ ̅͑̃̄͂͆͡M̆͏m̸̋ͯ̿͑̊̓͌m̓ͫͤ̓̇m̾͟m̓̃̅ͬͦ̇̚͞mm̸̓ͦͣ̏͛ͩ̏.͑͐ͥ̆ M̶͑ḿm̃̇m͟mͪ̓̿̎͢m̅mͪ͛.̷ͤ͆ͭ M͊͞m̐ͦm͏m͑ͫ̃͆m̵̐ͮ̿ṁ̑̈́m͂̑ͭͦ.ͩͣͮ̃̊ ͫͫ̓͑̒M̂̊ͭͬͤ̔mͯ̍̐m̿̈ͨ̂̒mͩͭ̌̋͠mͨmm̓ͦ̈́.͊ͫ ͫ͛͗̋ͥ̾͛M̛͊̉ͩ͗m̊mm̶̐̅̆̒m̑ͯͪ̅̅̊̕mͤͯ̃͢m͐ͪͯ͋̏̎̿.̅̌ͣ̆͗ͬ҉ ̧̿M̧̍ͣm͛̀͌̋m̎́͒͋͗m̈͗͑͆͑͌̒͏m̿͊̏̉̐ͯm̷ͥ̑m̢ͤ̔̍͋.̑͒͋̓̀ ̢Mͫͩ̀́͡m̽͊ͥ̏̐ͧ̚m̅̔̕m̴͋̅̓̊̉͊̆m̨ͦ͂̂̊͌͌̉m̀ͦ̆͊̃ͯm͊̎.̛͛̐̏ͧͮ ͨ̒̏ͬM̓ͤm̵͒̓̒̓ͧ̒m̑̋͒ͩ͐͗m̴̄̐ͫͬͪm̿̾m͊mͨ͊.͒ͭͩ̎͆̑̑́ ͨ͂M̆͌̅́̚m̆̏̓ͬ̊̅͜m̈́̚͜m̿ͥ̒̈͌͞m̶mͯmͧ̇ͬͫ̓́.̡

_" **STOP!** "_

___M̃̄ͯ̄̂ͫ́m͑̑͒̉ͮ͗̑m̿̇̀m̋͊ͨ̾m͒͠mͮ̈̀ͭͣ͘m̡̀ͬ̇͊̌ͣ.̸͋̈ͤ̿̂̄̊ ͑͆҉M̑ͮ̆͆̿mm͐̅m̸̎͌͂͆m̊̇̌͆ͩmm̵͐̈́̅̏̽͛̓.̢̊͊͐ͬ̄ ͌̎̂̓M̉̓̂͠mm̷̉̽ͩ́ͧͥmͧ̀̆̾́m̎ͯͮ͐͠m̅ͪ͒ͣͬ̋ͬm͌͒͑̔͐̾.ͫ̓͌ͣ̆̂̋ ͦ̓͡M̾̾̉m̾̂mͨ̇̿̇̊m̵m̋̐̐̓̇̃̕m̨mͫͪͩ̌͒̍̚.̓̌̽̂͏ ͮ͌M̡͋ͩ̒ͣm͟mͪͬ̈́͜ḿ̛̿m̡̎ͨ͊͐ͤm͆̂̒̓͌͒m͂̓̋̑̅.ͭͨ͛̾ ͊M̅m̍̅͆͑mͩ͊̀̍̓́̚m̄̐̓̒̎̈́́m̴͆̒̔́̑̍ͫmͨm̉̍̎͑ͬ̌.̆͋͆̃ͫ͜ ͨͨ͐́̄͒͜__ M̃̄ͯ̄̂ͫ́m͑̑͒̉ͮ͗̑m̿̇̀m̋͊ͨ̾m͒͠mͮ̈̀ͭͣ͘m̡̀ͬ̇͊̌ͣ.̸͋̈ͤ̿̂̄̊ ͑͆҉M̑ͮ̆͆̿mm͐̅m̸̎͌͂͆m̊̇̌͆ͩmm̵͐̈́̅̏̽͛̓.̢̊͊͐ͬ̄ ͌̎̂̓M̉̓̂͠mm̷̉̽ͩ́ͧͥmͧ̀̆̾́m̎ͯͮ͐͠m̅ͪ͒ͣͬ̋ͬm͌͒͑̔͐̾.ͫ̓͌ͣ̆̂̋ ͦ̓͡M̾̾̉m̾̂mͨ̇̿̇̊m̵m̋̐̐̓̇̃̕m̨mͫͪͩ̌͒̍̚.̓̌̽̂͏ ͮ͌M̡͋ͩ̒ͣm͟mͪͬ̈́͜ḿ̛̿m̡̎ͨ͊͐ͤm͆̂̒̓͌͒m͂̓̋̑̅.ͭͨ͛̾ ͊M̅m̍̅͆͑mͩ͊̀̍̓́̚m̄̐̓̒̎̈́́m̴͆̒̔́̑̍ͫmͨm̉̍̎͑ͬ̌.̆͋͆̃ͫ͜ ͨͨ͐́̄͒͜ ͏̙͍̬̼̖M̙͈̮̙͚͢m̜͢m̩̗͓͈m̺mmm̳̜͈̻ͅ.̧̣ ̹̼̮M͎̖̲̦̤͓m͎̥͍͠m̛m͙͕͔̞̼͕ͅm̞̲̳͚m̼̗͖͕͍̥͟ͅm̲̙̱.̱͎͔̳ ̷̥M̬̞̼͚͢mm̟͕̗̲̲̲ḿ̲̞͍̩m̜̩͍͟m͈̜͈m̡͙̝̗͇͖̟̪.̲̭̲̰̲͈ ̰͜M̹̟͇̣͜mm̗͉̤̩̜͓̰͞m͇̠̫͎̻̝̞m̕m̜m̰.͓͓ ̺̲͎̝̠̳M̯̟͓̞͕͔m͏̠̗̬͍̩̣̞m̖͎͡mm̠̞̰̻͙m̱m͔̘̦͖̟̝͘.̡̜͎ ̼̱͉̠̠͝M̮̪͎͚m̟͇͍͔m͚͍̼͈͢ͅm͖̦͉͠ͅṃ͙̦m̤̥̫̦̹m̙̖͈.̜̹̫͚͉̥̭̀ ͉̻͔͉̝̀M̗̩̜̱̩̣̰m̦̺͉̬̦͜m̞̪̜̝͙͎͟ͅm̷̗̻m̵̻̥̟m̝͙̜m̯̙̟̖͇̹͙̀. ̹̞Mm͕̝m̹̙m̻͢m̺̀m̦̯̻̗͟m̢͙̗̱͍͉.͕͖ ̥̞̥͘M̨̳͓͉̼̟̜ͅḿ̟̭̪̟͔̻mm̳ͅm̼͈̞̼mm͙̱̺̻͍͉͇͢.̴̯̖̹ ̩̬̲͔͙͉͙M͚̗m̜͍͠m͉̞͞ḿ̝̝͈̣m̗̗͓͎̱̕m̷̬̣͍m͎̖̺̩͕͎̦.̹̝̹͙̙ ̻͍M̲̟̰̩̼̤͓m̬̭m͍m̵̹̟̪̪m͏͇mm̧̬͍̭.̗̤̹ ̱͠M̸̟͚͔ͅm͓m̲̻̦͜m̯͔m͏mm̲.̗͞ M̖̘̳̪͕͜m̮͜ḿ̥͉̲̻m̯̗̰͙mm͖̜͍̱̹͕̟͘m̷̰̼̳̝̫̮.̙̪̀M̴̧͓̲̙̻m̦̠̤͓̝̰̯̰m͏̠m̛͈̙̝͇̙̣m̷͕͙͚̬͞m̵̙̪̠̼͉̙m̯̤͈͍̝.̪̜̖͈̼ ̜͉̞͎̳̙̻̗͜M̨̜͖̙m̶̢͔͝m̜̜m̢͇̪̝̞̺̤̰̦͘m̪̜̤͎̩͇̣͘m̸̙̺͟m̮̻͔̠̹̹.̪̜͉̤̼͟ ̢̜͙͙͔Ṃ̸̢͍̣̱͉m̨̞̪̠̗͕͙̱m͔͓͙̦̙̣̀͘m̩̮̞̜̫̻͡m̵҉̧̬̠m͏̴̵̗͔̼͈̞̞̣̯̮m͖̙̝̤̫͖̳̣͝.͠҉҉̘͓̩͍͓͉͈ͅ _

* * *

  

Mycroft Holmes would never end up telling his brother: _“This was excessively cruel.”_

He’d done much worse for family; things he hadn’t and wouldn’t regret.

There was a dark, damning possessiveness that resided in both of them, an ugly thing that reared it’s head at the slightest provocation, that howled and screamed, clawing at their heads, twisting their actions.

Sherlock hadn’t yet learn to control it; he hadn’t felt the need to curb it growing up, hadn’t seen why he should.

It was like Sherlock to want to bundle the doctor up and lock him up where no one could hurt him. John Watson, against all odds, looked at his brother and saw something worth loving. And if John Watson, who saw good in most everyone, who hid away his urge to break bones as if it were something to be ashamed of, who was always so careful with his words, always careful with his actions, as if one wrong move would turn him into his father… if John Watson saw something worth loving in Sherlock Holmes, then clearly, there was something worth loving in Sherlock Holmes.

Possessiveness, he mused, watching Sherlock experiment with blaring repititive sounds into the each individual cells, pressing each button with vindictive satisfaction, was a feeling that had only been exclusive to their parents, in other words, to family.

He had automatically, _wrongly,_ assumed that John would take care of these men and women, these cowards who would never showed their faces and instead prodded at raw nerves. He had assumed that John would dismiss their words, their lies and assumptions, with the ease he usually reserved for confronting murderers and thieves.

He hadn’t accounted for the childhood mindset that would move in, take over, the defense child had constructed a life time ago, to hide it, as if it were his own burden to carry, to never share because it had been beat into him that he would only ever bother anyone else.

He should have.

He should have done away with them entirely instead of letting their poisonous words sink into John’s skin.

 

* * *

 

"LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LETMEOUTLETMEOUTLET ME OUT-"

 

_"LET ME OUTLETMEOUT"_

 

 


	14. Growing Up Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quiet ones often get shoved around, and John Watson never spoke up for himself.

_ _

 

_John Watson was a quiet student._

_He always kept to himself in his little corner at the back of the class – he’d sat right in the middle, but Mr White had quickly found out that keeping him in front of everyone else only made him try to sink down into his seat and disappear, and made him an easy target for paper balls. His class teacher had never seen him ask any questions in the 6 months she had him, and tried to refrain from calling on him because there always seemed to be that one student who started sniggering when he spoke._

_Claire Ostenfeld had been a pre-school teacher for almost a decade. John Watson was not the first student she’d ever had that didn’t like to speak out, and she knew it took a lot of time and lollipops to put them at ease._

_Growing up with higher grades than the rest of her peers, especially male peers, she remembered cringing as her teachers complimented her in front of the entire class, remembered fretting about the growing hostility between her and her classmates; people didn’t like hearing about how someone else was better._

_It was best to say nothing at all._

_She’d pat John on the back and give him a smile._

_He'd smiled back when no one else was looking._

 

* * *

 

"Do you wanna have take-away?"

A towel slung around his shoulders, John turned towards where she sat staring at the screen of her television, where some sports program she didn't give one whit about was running, pausing where he stepped out from the bathroom, dressed in a woolen shirt she'd gotten for his last birthday but never got the chance to give to him. It made him look small. How did it make him look small?

John shrugged wordlessly, turning around to flick the bathroom lights off. "I'm not hungry." he said for the second day in a row, voice lightly casual in the way that meant it wasn't at all. And she knew _this_ , this pattern. He wouldn't eat for days, and then she'd get a call from some nurse telling her they'd found him passed out somewhere like he'd been starved.

She wondered if he'd called that detective of his, wondered if there was anyone at all who was worried about where he went, worried about _him._ He hasn't spoken to her yet - he didn't offer, and she didn't ask. But dammit, she hoped he did. She hoped there was someone who took care of him- Johnny had always been so bad at taking care of himself, too busy with everyone else, and some days, it would overwhelm him, disorientate him. Some days it caught up to him, and she'd seen that too.

"Well i am," she declared, and she crowed internally at being able to answer him without stumbling over her own words, turning around to reach for her phone, and her attention stalled for a moment on the half-empty bottle she had on the stand. "We'll have Indian." she said, remembering herself, fingers closing over cool metal, returning to the telly.

John hummed carelessly, dropping himself beside her on the couch, and she could tell they could both use some of her beer, but the question would make John stupidly tense, and it would be unbearable, and she'd hate him, and he'd hate her.

As she spoke to the nice lady at the other end of the line, John leaned into her hesitantly, his eyes trained determinedly on the screen, his finger tapping against his thigh, and they pretended she didn't pull him closer.

"What happened?" she asked when the call ended, when the cheering of the match on the telly died down to a low buzz and all she was aware of was his breathing.

"Nothing." he said, never looking at her.

His fingers curled around hers.

"Okay." she replied, squeezing gently, shifting her gaze back to the screen, staring blankly at the muzzy faces of one of the runners, "Okay."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wanted them to know, had looked forwards to watching them connect the dots themselves, watching realisation stun them, watching it bleed into devastation. But they never looked beyond their own pain, screaming questions through the doors, and it was the second night now, so he doubt they'd ever see the error of their ways.Their stupidity irritated him to no end. Some were asleep, twitching in the dark, so it was with great pleasure he wake them up with a shrieking ring.

They jolted awake, and he thought that one may have had a seizure.

 **"Are you awake?"** he drawled into the microphone, lips curving into a smirk when they jumped towards the noise, blindly groping, blubbering for forgiveness, for a reason, trying to plead to his  _humanity. John_  was his humanity; who did they think they were?

 **"Do you know why you're here? No don’t answer, of course you don't- you don't have it in you to _think."_  **The last word was a terrible hiss that made the microphone scream, spoken with a mindless anger towards himself for acting too late.  **"Then again, if you did, you wouldn't be here in the first place."**

 **"John Watson."**  he said, and even now, even when John was on the other side of town, the name brought immeasurable fondness, **"You're here because of what you _did to him_."**  and with the risk of sounding like one of the villains in John's stupid action movies, he continued softly: **"And I didn't like that."**

See, some of them were coming around. There was a suspicion in their eyes as they stilled.

**"I spent two years hunting down _liars_ and _murderers_ just so he could be safe."**

Look now, they knew it was him. They scrabbled uselessly against the walls, kicking the cement;  _Sherlock, Sherlock this isn't you, this can't be you, Sherlock;_ as if they were his friends, as if they knew him as well as John knew him. His lips curled in a sneer - _pitiful_.

 **"When I came back from my, hmm, let’s say exile… it was all for nothing. Well,”** he paused, as if being self-deprecatory. **“Not completely for nothing- Moriarty’s gone for good after all. Definitely not for nothing. But as you can see, I went through great lengths to _protect_ John.”**

The wailing started up again; cries for sympathy turning into cries of agony.

 **“He got hurt anyway.”** He murmured at last, reaching out to press the mute button.

Well it turned out Moriarty was right.

They were the same- only John made them different.

 

* * *

 

_"Hey, hey- LEAVE HIM ALONE!"_

_He almost gasped in relief when he was dropped to the ground, looking up when soft hands cradled his face, struggling to slow his breathing. "Harry," he said, voice strangled, and his arms almost came up to curl around her, but then his eyes flickered to the side, to the boy standing behind her, and his breathing hitched._

_Sebastian pursed his lips, averted his eyes._

_She helped him up, eyes dark with anger, "I'll beat the shit out of them." she hissed, because she was 15 and she had started to scream back at their father, didn't care whether or not she'd get in trouble, she'd flick her cigarette at him too. She'd started living with her friend, Anna's, and told their parents to fuck the hell off. He woke up screaming for her sometimes, afraid she'd be found, afraid she'd be hurt._

_"I'll bring him back," Sebastian offered, and Harry glared at him._

_"I fought back." he said, quietly, so Sebastian wouldn't hear him, and she smiled at him, "I hit one of them."_

_"Good."_

 

* * *

 

It's the next morning, and there is a terrible, terrible knocking at the door.

Harriet rolls out of bed, muttering resentfully about the time, because it's only 6 in the morning and she never gets up at 6 in the morning, who the bloody hell visits someone at 6 in the morning? She cringed when the knocking only got louder, and it was probably for the best no one was ringing the bell - god that thing would scream - but they were _knocking_ at 6 in the _morning,_ so she could still hate them.

It was that detective.

"I'm here for John."

She slammed the door in his face.

"Harry?" John's voice was slightly garbled where he spoke by the door of his room, as if he didn't want to be too far from the comfort of his bed in case it wasn't too late for him to jump back in if the knocking wasn't important, "Who's it?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but then the knocking started up again, and she closed it to sigh, a hand coming up to rub her temple, eyes clenching shut. "Your detective." she said wryly above the sound of knuckles against wood.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm, yes," she wanted to go back to bed, but John seemed to be completely awake now, stormy eyes wide and _panicked_  as he made an aborted movement back into his room, like he wanted to hide, and that made her glance at the door warily, "Unless you have more than one." John ran towards the door when shouts started outside, and she moved to the side.

"Just one." he mumbled, standing on his tip-toes to peer through the peep hole.

"I'll make tea." she said, already moving to the kitchen, hearing her brother wrench the door open to drag the taller man inside, away from the hollering neighbours and cutting short what seemed to be a fascinating argument over someone's mother.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture source: _kissthemgoodbye.net ___(http://kissthemgoodbye.net/sherlock/displayimage.php?album=9 &pid=29294#top_display_media)
> 
>  
> 
> _If you're being bullied, fight back. They'll see you as too much of a hassle to beat up. Make a big fuss._


	15. Don't Misunderstand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet thinks Sherlock is an arrogant twat, and Sherlock's not doing much to help himself.

 

“This must be the alcoholic sister.”

They were the first words that greeted her when she finally came from the kitchen, where she’d been preparing tea as quietly as possible, something she hadn’t needed to do because they said nothing at all in her absence. It was just one loud silence that she’d felt awkward intruding into, and it shattered when she stepped foot into the living room. It made her stiffen, her fingers clenching around the handles of the mugs she held, and if John weren’t already standing taut as a bowstring, she’d bet her last bottle of whisky that he would’ve snapped to attention.

“You are an obnoxious twat.” She replied, the lines of her features creasing as she scowled in his direction briefly, just as her brother sent a stern, disapproving expression towards said obnoxious twat, who only sneered at the couch before flopping down on it. He didn't seem to be such an asshole online.

Sherlock shrugged at her reply, and she could already see herself vanishing in his mind as his attention returning to her brother, “John.” He said, all serious.

“Sherlock,” John returned with a sigh, resignation coloring his voice even as he crossed his arms in an attempt to be more firm, staring down at Sherlock from across the room, “What are you doing here?”

“ _You’re_ here.” Sherlock said, as if it were an obvious answer.

She couldn’t be bothered to place her mugs down silently, not even with the silent showdown happening in front of her, and the glass made a thudding sound against the wooden coffee table. John glanced at her, and she raised her eyebrows in offering; _Want me to throw him out?_ She would. She really would.

John’s eyes shuttered, then he shook his head minutely, turning to his detective, “I wrote a note.” He said, as if reprimanding a child.

“It was an unacceptable note.”

John let out a long sigh that said this happened more often than it should, and yet the sound was still more exasperation than annoyance, a hand coming up to rub at his temples. “I wanted some time away, Sherlock.” He said, in a voice she recognized as him being deliberately patient, reaching out for a blue mug in some attempt at nonchalance, bringing it up to his lips like a barrier.

“Yes, because of the idiots harassing you.” John froze, just as she stiffened; _harass_ was a word neither of them took lightly. “Should be no problem now,” Sherlock continued without looking at John, a pleased curl of his lips, as his gaze shifted through the magazines beneath her coffee table, “They’ve been taken care of.”

“Harassed?” she asked, voice brittle, a coil in her chest, thrumming with energy.

“It’s nothing.” John said immediately, fingers white around his mug of tea, head snapping to the side to glare at her. She glared back, straightening her spine. This was not nothing. Since when did John come running to her? Two pairs of stormy blue eyes went to Sherlock, who had pursed his lips tightly at John’s words, icy eyes sharp on her brother. “I was not harassed.” John enunciated.

“What’s happening here?” she demanded, gaze darting from the man she’d never met before and the man she’d known her entire life. Well, she thought bitterly, John was a changed man. Maybe she didn't know him anymore.

“Nothing!”

She knew him well enough to know that tone. She'd heard that tone before-

“I think it’d be better for you to leave the room now, Ms Watson.” and her attention snapped back to the posh arse sitting on her tattered couch, fury making her fingers curl, the back of her neck prickling as she ignored how her brother’s eyes fell on her, instead choosing to snarl at the 'consulting detective' watching her. This was her flat, and he looked like a twig. She could break him easily, but she wouldn't because John was  _fond_ of him.

“He’s _my_ brother.”

“Yet he was looking for a place to stay when he came back from the army.”

Oh ho ho, this bastard.

 

* * *

 

They were bickering. He knew they would. He knew they would either hate each other or love each other, and he had vowed to put off their meeting for as long as possible, because finding out wouldn’t be worth it. He knew they were bickering but all he could focus on was that Sherlock _knew_. Maybe he really was selfish.

“He came to me to get away from you, you ass.”

“Did he? I doubt he’s told you anything at all, actually.”

How weak he really was, to run at a couple insults thrown his way instead of breezing through them like he should. Sherlock had always thought him a soldier, to fight, to stand his ground and what would he think now that he saw how useless he really was? He could barely keep up at crime scenes, with Sherlock rattling off deductions a mile a minute. He was going to leave again, wasn't it? Just like he had the first time, except he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t try to jump off another roof-

“I wasn’t the one who jumped off a building-”

“You know nothing about why I jumped-”

He supposed Harry knew now too, that he was the same pathetic little boy he used to be and he hadn’t moved on at all from where he _CRIED ALL OVER THE SIDEWALK_ when he'd been smaller. Losing both their respect in one day, that must be a record. He'd thought he could keep their steady routine for a few days, to curl around her and hide, even if just for a little while, without telling her anything was wrong- she'd ignore why he held her hand and put his head on her shoulder again and he;d ignore how she kept looking at the cupboard, kept shifting uncomfortably cleared her throat constantly as if it were too dry-

“ _SHUT_ _UP_.” He snarled, and his voice was too loud in the small flat.

Sherlock’s lips shut with a snap, and Harriet shrank back, her arms coming up to press defensively over her chest, legs shifting apart so she could throw a blow if she needed to; protect herself if she needed to. She- _they,_ never liked shouting. She would turn wide-eyed, guard up and ready to run.

He was doing it wrong.

He was doing it wrong.

“I need air.” He said curtly, steadying his trembling voice with a clearing of his throat, nearly snarling when Sherlock’s eyes flickered to his fists, his hands. He stormed towards the door, fear curling around his heart, trepidation that someone would call his name, stop him, but Sherlock wouldn’t, and Harriet knew him too well.

She had shut down; he could see it in her darkened eyes, in the way her face became blank of all anger. She was done. She turned on her heels and retreated back into her room, and just as he opened the door, he heard hers close with a quiet click.

 

* * *

 

Head down, he hadn't seen when someone came his way, when someone shoved past him roughly even when the side walk had no one but them, with barely an apology afterwards.

Temper frayed and nerves frazzled, he couldn’t have stopped himself from turning around, from letting a hand come up to snap around the hooded man’s wrist bruisingly tight as he hissed viciously, “What the fuck, mate.” His skin itched, crawled; he wanted a fight.

The man had a forgettable face, but his brown eyes were intent, staring at him for a brief moment, and then flickered upwards, beyond him. He whirled around with a snarl, knocking away the hand that came from the side without a second to waste, blue eyes alight with anger. They were ganging up on him-! He jerked back when he heard the sound of glass shattering on the sidewalk.

He looked down, heart jumping with trepidation.

“Is that a fucking syringe?”

Large hands curled around his arms, fingers digging into his skin to hold him still. He snarled, bringing his leg up to stomp hard on the man’s feet, elbow shoving into the body behind him. There was a grunt, but he’d had _enough._ He wasn’t weak- he could fight, he was a soldier, and if they thought him easy picking, if they were the ones who’d tormented him, who’d sent him jagged words, he would crush them, he would show them- he wasn’t a child anymore, he wasn't weak, he wasn’t useless, how _dare they-_

He felt bone crack under his knuckles.

Glass again- kidnapping? They wanted to take him away? Hah- Laughter left his lips in the form of short breathless growls, ducking when a fist came for his face. He didn't care, he didn't care. He was going to beat them to a fucking pulp. _  
_

Two men came running towards him.

They weren't there to help.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agnes Bruckner as Harriet Watson
> 
> Yes, they are Magnussen's men but John doesn't know that.


	16. Even The Stars They Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet is trying, and Sherlock will fix what he had with John, no matter the route.

 

Her phone made a loud beep, the sound earth-shattering in the silence of her room, and Harriet didn’t want to see what it said.

She didn’t want to do anything. She wanted to burrow into her pillows; she wanted to keep holding onto the bottle she had stashed in her room. Because she knew that if it was John on the other end, she’d regret. He would sigh, sounding disappointed and tired and angry. He would go quiet and she’d hate it. She was tired of regretting.

Fingers shaking, she picked up her phone anyway, because it could be _John_ ; she’d never neglect John. There had been two people she’d promised to love, protect forever; John, and Clara. Clara had left her for someone who didn’t constantly smelled of alcohol and smoke, who didn’t relapse every few weeks, who could actually do something with their life and had an actual future, and she didn’t blame her. John was her brother, and of the family she’d had – father, mother, aunts, uncles – John was the only one she’d ever really cared about. She would never ignore him.

 _[Save souls now.]_ The text shouted at her. She squinted at her screen, head splitting with the force of her migraine.

_[John or James Watson._

_Saint or Sinner?]_

What the fuck. What was this?

_[James or John_

_The more is less.]_

She tossed her phone somewhere across the bed, letting her hand drop on the mattress. Curling in on herself, she squeezed her stinging eyes shut.

But at the back of her mind, something nagged at her. There was a heavy feeling in her gut.

She reached out for her phone again, the light of her screen blinding her for a moment. God what the fuck, why didn’t phone companies ever make their screen brightness dark enough?

_“John or James Watson.”_

Harriet pulled herself out of bed. Probably nothing, she reasoned, stumbling when she heard glass shatter, jerking back at the sight of the half empty bottle on the floor, having been swept off her bed. “It’s probably nothing.” she repeated to herself. _But just to check._

Her fingers fumbled for the doorknob. She just barely bit back a snarl when her hands failed her. Fucking damn it. She gave the door a vicious kick, shouting.

What was she doing?

It was just a stupid text.

So it seemed paranoia ran in the family. Whoop. She gave the door another kick before trying the doorknob again- it opened. She doubled back for her phone, because why not? If it really was nothing, the most she would get was a sneer of some sort.

“Hey.”

Sherlock, the sod, hadn’t moved at all, no matter that it was already evening and hours after John had left. He was on his mobile, a pleased curl of his lips that seemed a touch malicious. He did, however, looked up at her when she called him, and the dart of his eyes from her fingers to her face, the wrinkling of his nose, told her he knew, and he knew all of it. He probably knew all her restless, useless thoughts when she wallowed in bed too.

She tossed her phone at him wordlessly, shoulders tensing defensively as she fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest, wishing she had worn more than a spaghetti shirt.

He caught it with one hand, pale green eyes flicking to the screen.

She knew she was right when his eyes narrowed.

“Get your coat.” He said sharply, pulling himself to his feet.

“Don’t need it.” she immediately shot back, already making her way towards the door. Coat be damned.

“It’ll be raining.” Sherlock muttered, brushing past her as he tucked his mobile into his pocket.

“No shit, Sherlock.” She sneered. She reached out for her keys, white-knuckled with how hard she was gripping them, nearly shoving the detective out the door with her waving arms. “My motorcycle’s this way.” She pointed to the right somewhere, slamming the house door shut.

He made a swerve that at any other time she would find hilarious.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, sucking in a sharp breath when cold wind hit her face. She tossed her ignition keys at Sherlock, half hoping it would smack him in the face before he caught it.

It didn’t.

“Is John okay?”

“He will be.” Sherlock said immediately; there was a promise in his voice, filled with fervor.

 _That’s not an answer,_ she thought mulishly as she clambered behind him, the engines of her bike roaring to life.

But that was okay, she didn’t need an answer. She just needed her brother back.

 

* * *

 

The “ _bad things”_ , the memories… they didn’t come to her when she was digging through burning wood. When the skin of her fingers peeled and darkened. She didn’t remember the shouting matches, the broken bones and the tears.

The movies made it seem like she’d remember all sorts of things.

She didn’t.

All she could think of was John, was getting John _out_.

There was Sherlock at her back, beside her. He was supposed to be there, anyway. She had vaguely heard his shouts mingling with the roar in her head. There were similar blisters on his hands – _after ­–_ bandages wrapped around his arms when he sat sullenly at the back of the ambulance. Truth was that she didn’t remember him at all. He disappeared the moment she saw the raging fires, realized John was inside.

John was supposed to be safe. The argument they had 6 years ago, it was all about John always putting himself in danger, always fighting and always running while she stayed behind, _always,_ staying behind. All she’d ever wanted was for John to be _safe_.

And it had hurt when he walked away from her, when she walked away from him. They were all each other had left, _didn’t he understand that?_

Him going off to war felt like abandonment, felt like punishment.

She could have lost him so many times before.

The fire licked at her face and roared in her ears, and there was that terrifying moment when a lock of hair whipped in front of her face and she realized her hair reached her elbows _._

She could have lost him so many times before.

When she’d dragged John out of the splintering wood, when John had opened his eyes blearily, she nearly burst into tears. Her tears had dried up so long ago, and all she could offer was a weak smile and a shaking hand.

Looking away from the nurse smoothing balm over her palms, she turned her gaze to Sherlock, who had insisted he was fine with such ferocity the nurses didn’t dare touch him. Not until a tired look from her brother had the great looming bat agreeing to a check-up. He ended up with bandages.

She wondered at the sight they made, fighting the sudden urge to laugh.

John leaned heavily against her shoulder, half asleep.

The ambulance had insisted they be brought to the hospital, but Sherlock and John had waved them away. A dark glower from Sherlock himself finally made them stop their pursuit.

“Is this what it’s always like?” she asked finally, sounding far away even to herself. Her voice cracked and hoarse.

“Pretty much.” John mumbled, and he had a split lip. The blood around it was already dried and crusted, and anyway, she figured he had other injuries to tend to, like the second degree burns curling up his arm, having eaten away at his jacket.

"I think this is too much for my heart." she said finally, pulling her eyes away to stare at the ground.

John laughed; it hurt to hear it. The hollow rasp, how he laughed like he couldn't breathe. Sherlock's lips pressed tightly together, expression pinched. Poor guy didn't seem to know what to do with himself. So maybe he wasn’t such an asshole after all.

"Italian?" the taller man asked abruptly, making both she and John turn to look at him.

He stared back at them silently, pale irises fixed somewhere between them. His arms were crossed over his chest, his fingers curled around his biceps. They seem to be twitching slightly. She wondered if he had that habit before he disappeared, if that was why he kept his hands in his coat - behind his back. She wondered at the scars she had seen across his bicep, at the way John had glanced away when he caught sight of them, looking both furious and sorry.

"Italian?" John asked her.

She drew herself from her thoughts, echoing the question in her head a good three times before she understood what he was asking of her.

Actually, she wanted to sleep. Maybe forever. Sherlock's expression went pinched again at her silence, and she sighed, her shoulders loosening.

"Okay."

She might as well.

 

* * *

 

They ate in silence.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He had ordered nothing, his fingers curled gently around his glass of water. He didn’t dare drum his fingers, for it might awaken John’s ire. It seemed as if the softest of sound was thunder in his ears.

His heart wouldn’t slow.

John could have died.

John could have died.

John could have _died._

What was the _point_ \- what was the point of anything if he came back only for John to die? Who wanted John dead? Was it… was it because of _him_?

He dragged himself away from his harried thoughts when John glanced at him, blue eyes dark and conflicted, yet still worried. Always worried, for him.

John had ordered a simple risotto but only took a few half-hearted bites, before he set his fork down and started playing with his drink.

Harriet kept glancing at the bottles lining the restaurant, reluctantly dragging her eyes away only to find herself drawn in again every five minutes. She hadn’t drank the entire time John stayed with her? No.

She would have been far more irritable. She had a drink before, that he knew. Maybe when John had fallen asleep; he could see her moving along the rooms of her apartment silently, white knuckled and guilty.

She looked a bit shell shocked.

He wanted to say something, but _John_ , John wouldn’t like it. Would John like it? He wouldn’t know. He didn’t think he knew John anymore.

He carefully brought out his mobile; what else was there to do? He needed more data. Setting John on fire was surely too much, even for his rabid fans. Would John glare at him for it? He had never done so before, but-

This was not _before._

His eyes flickered to the little text he had received from his brother only moments before.

_[Is John well? –MH]_

It couldn’t be the fans – he had them all monitored. _Closely, and painfully._

“What is it?”

His head jerked up – not guiltily, _definitely_ not guiltily – at the sound of John’s voice. The blond himself looking at him with tired, curious eyes, eager for something to distract him, clearly. Sherlock didn't think he would like what he had been checking on his mobile. John didn't like to be helpless, he had to remember that.

Harriet glanced at them, but otherwise went back to prodding her at shrimp spaghetti.

“Just looking for the mastermind behind the bonfire." he answered, clearing his throat.

John's expression went pinched and dark, a shadow flitting over his weathered features. "Right." he said gruffly, his hand reaching out for his fork restlessly.

"It's not any of your... admirers."

John snorted, a thin smile curling his lips. His shoulders tensed minutely at the reminder, and Sherlock wanted to backtrack immediately, feeling like he was treading on broken glass. Seemed as if that was all he and John had been doing lately, around each other, always in circles and always in riddles. He _hated it._  "And how would you know?" John asked wryly.

Harriet looked out the window, her hands clenched tightly into fists.

"I have them contained." he said, as carelessly as he was allowed.

Harriet turned to look at him then, her eyebrows raised; he might have impressed her, a bit. But all he could see was John stiffening, in trepidation and wariness, blue eyes stormy once more.

"What?"

"I have them contained." he repeated, refusing to look away from John's heavy gaze. He would not apologize for it, either. He had been patient, and he had been quiet, but he would not stand for John to look down on himself and agree mindlessly to the opinions of people who didn't matter, who would never matter.

"I was handling it." John said, voice flat.

"No, you weren't." he countered lowly, tilting his head to the side, adding sharply when it seemed as if John was about to object: "You were running away from it."

"I was not running." John hissed word by word, his lips peeled back in a snarl. His fingers were wound tightly around his fork, and his eyes seemed to flash with fury as he leaned forward.

"Oh don't lie to yourself, John." he retorted angrily, a curt sound that almost made John flinch back. He _wouldn't_ take it back- "If you were going to do something, you would have by now, but you didn't-"

"The two of you, stop it." Harriet interrupted loudly, an ugly sneer pulling her lips when they turned towards her irritably. Her glower was vicious, though her arms were crossed again. She swept her hair from her shoulders as she pulled herself to her feet, pulling three crumpled bills from her pocket to slam on the flowery print of the table. "Since _none_ of us are hungry," she spit. "We're leaving, before we get thrown out."

John stood, letting go of the fork he'd been holding onto.

_"Fine."_

 

 


End file.
